


Panama Red

by J_Q



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Cannabis, Drug dealer!Mickey, GW2020, Intoxication, M/M, Meet-Cute, Sad Ian Gallagher, Sexual Content, good times man
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:34:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25381699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Q/pseuds/J_Q
Summary: Life isn't turning out the way Ian Gallagher planned it. But it turns out that might not be such a bad thing when his brother sends him to pick up some world famous weed from a new drug dealer.(Panama Red is a pure variety of Cannabis sativa, popular among marijuana users of the 1960s and 1970s and renowned for its potency. It's making a comeback on Chicago's South Side.)
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 115
Kudos: 97
Collections: Gallavich Week 2020





	1. Euphoria

“How can you be sure this shit is worth the drive, Lip?” Ian asked as rows of single family homes interspersed with abandoned buildings and colorful graffiti sped past the passenger side window of their Ford Focus.

Despite living the last decade in Hyde Park, he didn’t have much reason to venture to the neighboring Canaryville. When he wanted to get out of the all but non-existent nightlife of his neighborhood, he went to East Lakeview where being young, good looking and male also meant that being a year away from the legal drinking age would not be a problem.

“It’s only been 13 fucking minutes. You need to get out more.” Lip flipped his cigarette butt out the window, flapping his arms to clear the lingering smoke while keeping an eye on the road. They were using their parents’ second vehicle, and retired Colonel Clayton Gallagher made it clear to his little regiment of children that smoking was an unnecessary evil. “What’s that house number?”

Ian squinted to read the rusted number on the front porch of the Tudor style house they were passing. “1933.”

“Ok, we’re close.” He crawled along the street as they studied the numbers, finally pulling over when they reached their destination, a brick two story next to the tracks.

“That’s it?” Ian frowned at the rundown exterior and assortment of shit littering the tiny square yard.

“Guess so,” Lip agreed, shifting the car into park. “Better be the dude’s house. Jonesy says he’s got the best shit.”’

“He’s a fucking pothead, so he’d know,” Ian agreed. "Guy got lucky to have you as his college roommate."

"And in exchange, we get the best shit."

Ian expelled a snort of air. "He always says it's the _best shit_." He added finger quotes to make sure Lip knew he wasn’t buying what he was selling, even if it was allegedly the best marijuana money could buy.

"This time it's true." Lip’s eyes lit up, the blue so pale he almost looked stoned just talking about it. "Panama Red, Ian. It's fucking legendary. Some say it's the reason Woodstock happened. All that fucking and partying, man, epic. But it disappeared in the 70s. Now it's back and we got an in."

A shiver of excitement passed through Ian's body despite his better judgment. The last couple years of his life sucked ass, so an earth shattering high and maybe even some free love sounded like just what the doctor ordered.

“You going in?” Ian asked.

“You are. I gotta drive around the block and wait.”

“What?” Ian turned toward his brother with a head shake.

“Yeah, so there’s a bunch of rules. No parking out front and you gotta ask for Mick.”

“Mick,” Ian repeated.

“Yeah, if you don’t, then you won’t get in.”

“So it’s like a secret code?” he snickered.

“Yup,” Lip shoved four one-hundred dollar bills into his hand. “That should get us an ounce.”

“Serious? It better be legendary for that price.”

“I told you--”

“Yeah, yeah, Jonesy’s found the Holy Grail. Whatever. Why isn’t he here then?”

“Cause he’s on the guy’s shit list,” Lip explained, reaching over to open Ian’s door for him. “Hurry the fuck up.”

“Hang onto your shorts. What’d he do to get on his shit list? I need to know what I’m walking into, Lip.” Ian closed the door and leaned against the handle so his bossy older brother would have to take him seriously. “I ain’t going in otherwise.”

“I don’t fucking know,” Lip sighed, clearly frustrated and a little worried since he was scanning the street through the rear view mirror then shoulder checking.

“Spill it. You’re the worst liar ever.”

“Jesus, can we discuss this on the way home? Or better yet when we’re fucking high.”

“Nope.”

“Fuck fine. I guess there’s some off duty cop who has it in for the guy and his crew."

Ian rolled his eyes. "His crew? What's he a gangsta?"

"I think they're more than just your friendly neighborhood dealers, Ian." He sounded almost impressed. "Anyway, can you pay the fuck attention please? Jonesy broke some of the rules.”

“Which rules?”

“He fucking parked out front, and the cop spotted him and cased the house for the rest of the day.” Lip rested his forearm on the steering wheel and scowled at Ian. “So sales dried up for a bit. Obviously. And now we’re doing the same fucking thing. Get out of the fucking car.”

“Like fuck, Lip. You want me to get arrested for possession?” He returned the scowl.

“That’s not going to happen if you get out.”

“Oh for chrissake, fine.” Ian yanked on the handle. “But if I get arrested, you better fucking bail me out, asshole. Not like last fucking time.”

“Stop being dramatic. You were barely even arrested.”

“I was in the back of a fucking cop car, dick.”

“Yeah, yeah, get out.”

Ian gave him the finger but exited the car into the late summer heat, eyeing the rusted metal gate that led to the front porch. He didn’t even get a chance to shut the car door before Lip took off down the street, left signal light blinking.

 _You better come back for me, you prick_ **_._ ** Ian sent that message psychically as he pulled the gate open, metal screeching where it dragged along the cement sidewalk.

“Maybe fix your gate,” he muttered grouchily, thinking it was bad business to scare off your customers that way. The porch steps could use some love too, he decided and glanced at the big bay window to his right hoping for a glimpse of what lay beyond the solid wood door, but the curtains were shut tight. The place seemed deserted and nearly derelict. A swirl of apprehension made itself known, and Ian chided himself. He’d bought weed from a dozen different locations over the years, without hassle or incident. Other than that one time with Lip of course.

But this house gave him the willies. Realizing he was still grasping the cash in his now sweaty palm, he started to stuff it in the front pocket of his jeans but decided on the inside of his sneaker instead.

Despite growing up in a boring university suburb, he'd learned to watch his back. Everyone knew that the last people you can trust lived in fraternities. Lip and his asshole friends pulled more shit than any crew in this neighborhood.

The doorbell dangled from a wire, so now Ian had to decide which method to use to make himself known. Lip had said the dude was very specific about how these transactions went down. Was the loose button a sign to not use it? Or just a continued lack of home maintenance, which seemed to be the theme of the place?

Biting his lip for a moment, he decided to bang on the door figuring he could control the outcome of that decision. He tapped twice lightly and waited. Nothing. Damn it. Why was he behaving like a chickenshit?

He banged twice loudly and the door swung open before his knuckles made the second landing. “I heard ya the first time, man.”

Ian’s initial thought was this had to be the dealer. If he had some Weird Science type powers to create the ideal drug dealer, this would be the guy. Dark hair, hard eyes, white wife beater with a small burn hole near one clearly outlined nipple. Loose fitting jeans hanging on hips that were tipped in an aggressive stance like he was ready to jump the next person to open their mouth. While he was kind of mean looking, mostly he just looked unimpressed with whatever Ian happened to be doing on his stoop. His lips were pursed in a clear message of impatience and long suffering.

The door swung shut in Ian’s face.

“What the hell?” he sputtered and knocked once more.

The door reopened.

“You wanna try this again?” the guy asked. His arms crossed over his chest, biceps hardening as his chin dipped low in aggravation. “You got two seconds and I won’t be opening the door a third time.”

“Sorry.” Ian shook his head, clearing the fog from his brain. “Could I speak to Mick?”

All he got was a blank stare. Had he not asked correctly?

“Is Mick home?” he tried again. No response. Just icy blue eyes and dark brows that held nothing back. “Are you Mick?”

Still nothing and Ian felt his patience fizzle out.

“I’m gonna go ahead and guess you are cause I hear he’s an asshole.”

A little light sparked in those eyes and he stepped back. “Come in.” As he walked away from Ian, he added, “Shut the fucking door behind you.”

The interior of the house was maybe a hair more welcoming than the exterior. It was mostly an open concept, so he could see the kitchen table as well as the sofa and big screen TV tuned to a golf station. Ian paused on that, trying to reconcile the sport with everything else around him, including the guy who had answered the door.

Ian’s dad played golf with his retired army buddies, so he’d heard way too much about strokes under par and shit like that. It was something he associated with old dudes not young, hot ones.

“Who’s winning?” He smiled, pointing at the TV screen. All he got in response was a head shake before that head peered between the closed living room curtains, dank beige material parted slightly so the dark head could survey the street.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he snarled and turned his wrath on Ian. “You bring the fucking 5-0 with you?”

“No! Course not.” Ian took a step back in actual fear. “Why would I do that? I don’t wanna be arrested.”

“Motherfucker.” The curtains parted again. Bare shoulders tensed, sending a ripple of muscle down the back of the white tank top and Ian’s eyes followed it to the swell of his ass. “Just need a decent dump site then I’ll never have to see that fucker again.”

 _Holy shit,_ Ian yelled internally and his eyes hit the ceiling. No way was he looking at the guy. What the fuck had Lip gotten him into this time? Was he buying dope from a cop killer? Well, a wannabe cop killer?

Blue eyes snapped back toward him, scouring Ian from head to toe and back again as he waited for Ian to respond.

“Sorry, I don’t know any good dump sites.”

Once again the blue eyes seemed to lighten a little as he let the curtains close and reached for a pack of Marlboros on the coffee table. “What’re ya here for, Red?” he asked, tapping a smoke out then tossing the pack between a taped up remote control and a titty magazine.

Ian felt his face scrunch up at the sight of piles of bleach blonde hair and huge boobs pressed together. The guy’s eyes tracked between Ian and the magazine. “Not a fan of porn?”

“Oh, no, I like--nevermind,” Ian sputtered for the twentieth time since the door opened to reveal the guy. “I’m here to buy some, ah, Panama Red?”

The dark head nodded thoughtfully and a stream of smoke exited through his nostrils, making Ian’s nose twitch. “How much?”

“Ounce.”

Again with the head nod, “Five hundred.”

Now Ian’s eye twitched. Was he fucking with him? Did he have to negotiate? “I only brought four hundred.”

“You probably remember where the door is, huh?” His eyes dismissed Ian settling instead on the slow ass golf game on the TV. It looked to Ian like nothing had happened on the green since he’d arrived. Then again, nothing had happened here either. Pulling his cell phone from the front pocket of his jeans, Ian intended to send his brother a nasty text and demand he get picked up right now.

“Put that fucking thing away.”

The words were quiet but nothing short of scary, and Ian obeyed. “Just texting my brother to let him know I can’t make the deal, so he should pick me up.”

“Nope, I just decided you ain’t leaving until Officer Peeping Tom gives up and heads home to his miniature fucking schnauzer.”

“You know what breed of dog he has?” Ian shifted uncomfortably. He’d been standing next to the sofa for almost ten minutes and now he was being held hostage for god knows how long.

“Course, I do,” came the annoyed reply. “Sit.”

Squirming a little under the intensity of the man’s blue eyes, Ian obediently sat on one end of the sofa. Lip probably wouldn’t come for him with a cop out front even if he texted him demanding it, and no denying that whoever this guy was he wasn’t accustomed to people disobeying him.

“Are you Mick?”

“Why? You wanna send me a love letter?” His voice was a bit muffled as he bent down to shove a spindly side table away from the wall and began twisting a screwdriver into the exchange vent. The cover came away from the wall, revealing a pile of baggies filled with weed and pills. He tossed a baggie on the coffee table, where it landed on the oversized nipples the blonde was clearly proud to display. Ian counted it as a blessing that he didn't have to keep looking at them. The vent cover was replaced, and the guy who might or might not be Mick sat down on the sofa too. One cushion separated them.

“Wanna get high?”

Did he? Sure, but with this guy and a cop out front and four hundred bucks in his shoe? Was anyone else even in the house? He glanced over his shoulder, but the kitchen was out of view and all he could see past the dining table was a darkened hallway.

“The Red is a good sativa, none of that hybrid shit on the market now. I think you’ll find that it’s worth five, and maybe scrounge up the extra hundred.”

The smell of clay and earth filled Ian’s nose the moment the baggie opened. It was a little overpowering, making Ian think of summers being forced to weed his mother’s shitty garden because she couldn’t get out of bed to take care of it herself.

“Twenty-seven percent THC.”

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah. Don’t need much, so it’s like getting more bang for your buck.”

Ian watched him pull a white square of paper out of the Zig Zag pack, then crease it carefully. It slipped smoothly between almost delicate fingers as he laid a strip of reddish weed down the center and topped it with a line of tobacco.

“Yeah, I heard it was legendary.”

The letters tattooed on his knuckles reminded Ian that he was dealing with someone who had probably led a life of crime, but mostly he was dazzled by the skillful way the paper rolled between his fingers, over and over, left to right, until the contents was evenly dispersed. It was like watching art in the making.

Ian decided that maybe the smell wasn’t so bad after all.

“Old school cannabis smoked the way God intended.”

"In a rolling paper?"

"Sure, why not?"

As the tiny, perfectly shaped cylinder met a moist tongue and slid along the surface of what had to be the softest looking lips in Chicago, Ian nodded. “Yeah, okay.”

“Good decision, North Side.” With that, he tapped the end three times making sure the filter was properly packed.

“I’m actually from the South Side,” Ian clarified as he accepted the joint and sniffed it lightly before meeting disbelieving blue eyes. “Technically.”

This was met with a chuckle and a silver Zippo hit him in the chest then fell to his lap, by way of his groin. He looked at it and could feel the other man’s eyes still on him. Peeking up as his hand covered the lighter, he caught those blue eyes on his crotch and looked away so fast he felt a wave of motion sickness.

That had to be an error or something. No way did he just check out Ian’s junk, no way.

“You a virgin?” the guy chuckled giving the lighter a nod and reminding Ian that he was supposed to be using it. “Flame to the end, easy peasy.”

Ian smiled and shot him the finger, then wondered what the hell he was thinking when he got a narrow eyed look. For a moment, he’d been lulled into something intimate. He flicked the lighter twice before it ignited, using the activity to avoid looking at him again.

With the flame flicking the dry paper and creating a yellow hue as the empty paper burned into the weed, he inhaled lightly avoiding the harsh intake of lighter fluid and the piercing blue eyes watching him through the haze of smoke drifting toward the ceiling.

Ian inhaled deeply at that point, eyes fluttering shut as he sucked in a lungful of smooth, mildly astringent smoke that expanded immediately into his limbs and brain and remained when he exhaled. The usual harsh cough he expected never came, and he opened eyes he couldn’t remember closing. He immediately inhaled again, thinking of clean earth, foreign spices and peaceful evenings making him laugh at how ridiculous his thoughts had become after only three pulls.

“Shiiiit,” he moaned once his lungs relaxed and his tongue absorbed the spicy aftertaste. He reluctantly passed the joint over, watching through hazy eyes as it settled between two tattooed fingers then slid between those lips, and his senses kicked into hyperdrive, acutely aware now of everything, pulsing with the shapes and colors around him.

“Hey.”

His eyes made a lazy trip over to the offered joint, but paused on black hair so vibrant he felt drawn to touch it, to explore how silky it must be.

“Yo, numbnuts.”

Brilliant blues replaced jet black and sparks seemed to fly from his eyes as the lit end of the joint was shoved near his face, and he grasped it between his thumb and finger. Two more hits and he was blissed out, floating in some mellow state where he was certain that he could conquer the world if the need arose.

Leaning back into the sofa, head resting comfortably, he stared at the chipped paint and water stains on the ceiling waiting for the slightly jittery paranoid feeling that never came. What did arrive was the end of the joint against his lips and the return of blue eyes so bright Ian got lost in them for eternity, mesmerized by the clarity of the irises and how they made him think of summer skies and--

“Inhale, idiot.” A chuckle followed and Ian inhaled as deep as he could, holding his breath as the joint moved away from his lips and settled on those amazing lips. He watched the inhale like it was in slow motion, holding his breath so they could exhale together.

“Shiiit,” he moaned again, riding the wave of euphoria. “This moment is perfect.”

Another chuckle met this grand statement, and he felt the guy lean back into the sofa beside him, mirroring his position. “Yeah.”

They stared at the ceiling in silence.

“This moment is perfect too,” Ian concluded, amazed that each moment was able to top the one before. “More perfect.”

"Perfecter?"

Ian giggled, then sat up, experiencing a nearly overwhelming need to share how perfect the moment was for him. “Do you feel it?” he asked, distracted momentarily by the warm body encased in a tank top and jeans lounging beside him.

Opening one lazy red eye, he grinned at Ian. “Sure, man, ain’t my first rodeo.”

Feeling like he’d been strapped to a rocket and sent off to outer space, Ian jumped up from the sofa. He looked around the house, needing something, anything. It was almost unbearable, the need. His life was passing by in this moment, and he needed to grab a hold of it. Now. What was he waiting for?

He leapt over the coffee table, unsure where he was headed but enjoying the frantic happy feeling, which was so different from how he’d felt for way too long.

“We should go for a walk,” he suggested. “Is there a park around here?”

Another lazy chuckle. “Look at the window, dork.”

Ian skipped over to the living room window, parting the curtains to reveal the cop car. “Shit,” he muttered. But the sun was low in the horizon, sending a rainbow of reds in all directions. “Beautiful.”

“What? He ain’t beautiful. Ugly motherfucker.”

“Come see!” Ian turned away from the blinding sunlight, blinking in the dim room. “Get up.”

“What the fuck? Come back to the couch, man.”

“Get. Up.” Ian wasn’t taking no for an answer. He couldn’t miss this spectacular display of God’s divine...something or other. “What was I saying?”

Yet another chuckle. “You were saying you wanted to come sit on the fucking couch.”

“Oh, really? That doesn’t seem right.” But he headed in that direction anyway, flopping down beside the relaxed form. He twisted slightly to get a better look at the man, his knee butting up against his hip lightly. “You’re really attractive.”

“Fuck off.” But he didn’t move from his relaxed position, just stared up at the ceiling.

“No really. Like there’s so much of you that it’s distracting.”

“Say what?” Now he was looking at Ian, eyes wide in disbelief.

“What?” Ian asked.

“That’s what I fucking asked you.”

“I don’t know but I’m so fucking thirsty. I can barely swallow. Need something wet.” Licking his lips, he imagined clear, cool streams, fresh water and the wonder of nature.

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah,” Ian agreed, smiling as his thoughts flew around his head. “Do you ever wonder what consciousness is?”

“Fuck no.”

“What do you wonder?” Ian asked, resting his arm along the back of the sofa and wondering himself if the guy would notice if he rubbed a few strands of dark hair between his fingers. It was so close all he’d have to do was move slightly. “Hm?”

“I wonder, of all the shit in the world, who decided bat shit was the craziest?”

Ian watched the guy cover his lips as they both cracked up, laughing until they had to come up for air. “I’ve never even seen bat shit,” he snickered.

“Probably for the best.” They cracked up again, eyes flicking toward each other.

The house got quiet, and a serenity that Ian was sure he’d never felt in his life passed over him. It was in such stark contrast to the last few years of his life that it almost overwhelmed him, so he jumped back up from the sofa.

“We need music.” He scanned the room for something that would play music, but came up empty. Leaning slightly over the guy to get his full attention, he asked, “Got any music? Yoohoo, music.”

“I heard ya the first time.”

“Then get up!” Ian grabbed his hands and yanked him to his feet, so they were face to face in the narrow space between the sofa and table. “I’m so happy to be here.”

“I can tell,” he smiled and Ian smiled back. “Okay, fuck. Pass me the remote.”

Ian gladly did so, but not before he grimaced at the sight of the naked blonde. “Buzz kill,” he complained, catching the guy’s eye and getting a pronounced eyebrow in response.

They turned to the TV expectantly. A man in light blue pants and white shoes swung a golf club high into the air before smacking into a ball. “Woah,” Ian gaped, unsure how he’d never gotten interested in golf before. “Did you see that?”

“Sure.”

They stood in front of the TV for a few minutes.

“So?” Ian prompted.

“So what?”

“Music?”

“Oh yeah.”

He glanced at Ian before flicking to the channel guide, maneuvering to a music station. A romantic melody surrounded them, pumping from the speakers. They looked at each other again, giving in to another round of giggles, and Ian wanted to pull those tattooed fingers away from his lips so he could see the whole smile.

“Fuck this shit.” He continued flicking through a few stations until Flo Rida started telling them to get low, low, low, low. They looked at each other again, nodding in sync to the beat. Ian could feel his hips start to pick up the rhythm, and the weight of what felt like a thousand shitty lifetimes lifted from his shoulders.

“Another perfect moment,” Ian breathed.

“Yeah."

"I think I'm already addicted." He wasn’t going to be able to live without this now that he’d had a taste.

"Me too."

They stared at each other, certain they were alone in the universe, the rest of the world a distant buzz that had nothing to do with them.

“Still fucking thirsty though.”

That dark head nodded in the direction of the kitchen. “That’ll be an extra charge, Red.”

“No problem, it’s my brother’s money anyway,” he paused wondering if Lip was texting him. Sneaking a peak at his phone, he saw three messages and smiled happily. The shithead could wait. “What’d’a ya got?”

“This ain’t a fucking restaurant, bitch.”

Ian snickered. “Can I get fries with that?” Then he sighed dramatically. “God I love fries. Aren’t they delicious? Ketchup and salt. Mmmm…”

“Shut up, fuck’s sake,” he muttered scanning the fridge contents. “Now I want fucking fries.”

“I could text my brother to bring us some.”

“Not till Officer Fuckhead gives up.” He pulled two Bud Lights from the fridge. “What the fuck? Light beer?”

He handed one to Ian, who was leaning against the counter facing him. As they tipped the bottles to their lips, he mirrored Ian’s position, leaning a hip against the fridge door. They sipped again. Eyes never leaving each other’s as the moments of Ian’s life slowly ticked by and malt exploded on his taste buds.

“God that’s so good. I’ve never had a better beer in my life,” Ian concluded, breaking eye contact to read the label, certain there would be an explanation as to why it was so delicious.

“Need to get out more, man.”

Ian laughed at how often people keep telling him that, maybe it was time to let go of all the crap dragging him down. Like his current train of thought.

Setting the beer aside before it could wreak havoc on his nervous system, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand then rested it on the ledge behind him, where it contacted with something sticky. He glanced behind him at the pile of dishes in the sink, then continued his perusal of the cluttered, dirty counter space.

“Wanna clean your kitchen?” he asked, feeling pumped at the thought.

“Are you having a bad fucking trip?”

He rubbed his palm on his jeans. “Not even close. Cleaning would be so productive.”

“Definitely trippin’.”

Ian shrugged, nothing could bring him down from whatever fucking cloud he was on, and that cloud got a hell of a lot better the moment the alcohol hit his system. It rekindled the soul stirring stimulation that had been tapering off ever so slightly. His body was actually tingling with pleasure, and it wasn’t even doing anything but keeping him alive at the moment.

And the best part was that his brain, which tended to ruin shit by thinking thoughts that depressed the fuck out of him, was once again quieted. All he could focus on was being alive, so very alive. His heart was thudding at this awareness and for a second, he panicked that he was wasting his life. He needed to do something, he needed to feel things and live fully.

Fuck, he wanted something so bad, but he didn’t even know what that something was.

Until he once again made eye contact with the man leaning against the fridge, one hip propped against the taped-up handle, one thumb hooked in the pocket of his jeans, beer bottle resting on the white material covering his belly. Ian felt his eyes widen when they met the blue ones across the kitchen, and his lips parted with each intake of breath. A lifetime passed as they stared at each other, and for the first time in his 20 years, Ian was certain that someone actually saw him.

He wanted and now he knew exactly what he wanted. Beer bottle forgotten on the counter next to his phone, he stepped forward a little jerkily because his legs felt like Jell-o, but the euphoria in his belly almost brought him to his knees when he was met halfway, chest to chest. His eyes drifted shut as he lowered his lips onto the full ones he’d been drooling over since the front door opened.

“Ohhh,” he moaned without any sort of filter but somehow that was okay. More than okay… “Perfect.”

“Shut up and kiss me.”

Those words went straight to Ian's dick via his heart, which skipped a couple beats at the huskiness of the voice. His next moan was trapped in the other man's mouth, and he pulled the warm body against his own suddenly overheated one.

Ian wondered why men were given only two hands because he needed four, no, six. Yeah, six hands to touch everything that could be touched. The two that he had were working overtime, running over every exquisite body part he had access to. Face, shoulders, back, ass, thighs. It was fucking insane. Had anything ever felt so good?

“No,” he moaned, but then the soft mouth was gone and he tried to follow it with his own, opening his eyes in confusion to find angry blue ones.

“What the fuck you saying no to?”

“No!” Ian kissed him quickly. “I mean yes.”

“Jesus.”

Nodding in agreement and not taking any chances, Ian yanked up the guy’s white tank top, disturbing the unnaturally perfect tuft of dark hair on his head. Tossing it aimlessly, he pulled him back toward his lips, and his two pathetic hands got busy. This time they found their way down the smooth skin of his back, over tensed muscle and under the seat of his jeans, encouraging him closer and nearly losing his mind at the feel of firm cheeks under his palms.

Certain that sparks were flying from his nerve endings as their dicks pressed together through two layers of denim, he sucked so hard on the tongue swirling around his that he got a smack on the back of his head.

“What was that for?” he whined.

“Take your shirt off, Loverboy.” Hands impatiently shoved at the material covering his abdomen.

His t-shirt ended up flying across the kitchen, hitting the back door and sliding to the mat below. Ian watched it in wonder then got a second smack to the back of his head, refocusing his attention on their bare chests, inches apart.

“God, you’re fucking sexy.” He shifted slightly so they were touching and did a little shimmy to build up some friction because everything felt so fucking good.

“And you’re a strange motherfucker.” But his blue eyes were telling Ian something totally different and they came back together, lips and dicks and hands. That’s all Ian could think about until a hundred and forty pounds of sexy drug dealer wrapped around him, thick thighs clenched to Ian's hips forcing him backwards into the edge of the countertop with a grunt.

As their lips met, the arms that were locked around his neck tightened and he sank to his knees under the weight, tipping forward until he was pressing the other man against the floor with his body. Their mouths moved fast, tongues frantic, and he tried not to think about how his hips fit snugly between strong thighs or he’d be done, probably come in his jeans.

The hands on his body were determined to wreck him though. The one the back of his neck clawed at his skull, and the other pushed between their bodies to the front of Ian's jeans. Needing to see that with his own eyes, he broke the seal of their lips, bumping their foreheads as he looked at the scarred and tattooed fingers cupping him.

Tilting his hips, he trapped the fingers against his body, feeling tensed thighs push against his. This new wanting that was so integral to his existence was now concentrated under the pressure of strong fingers and soft lips, until the button of his jeans snapped open with a violent tug, and his whole existence narrowed.

He was sure that his nerve endings were never gonna be able to handle what was coming. Then his zipper lowered and the sound made him ache.

“Trippin’ again?”

“Yeah," Ian breathed, "on you.”

His back hit the cold, dirty kitchen floor with enough force to jar his brain, but he didn’t have an opportunity to dwell on how easily Mick flipped them because his bare fingers brushed against Ian’s dick once, twice before he heard the sounds of another button and zipper. Then they were intimately pressed together, trapped inside a firm hand.

The Ian that he used to be was hovering somewhere outside his body as their dicks and chests pressed together, skin to skin, and fingers that could roll the most beautiful joint in the world surrounded them, pumping in a steady pattern. That skillful certainty was being applied now to his body, and Ian grasped both sides of his face so he could slant their heads and deepen the kiss until he couldn’t breath.

He pulled their mouths apart slightly, hearing the panting coming from those lips and matching it with his own inhales and exhales.

Ian’s body was tightening and that feeling of being strapped to a rocket returned. He opened his eyes and stared into the red, lust-filled ones above him. It was surreal and outside of any worldly experience he’d ever had. They didn’t move, they didn’t look away, they came so hard it probably woke the cop napping in his car out front.

Then they closed their eyes, bodies beating against each other, wetness between them. The floor was hard and filthy and Ian didn’t care in the least. He was riding a parachute back down to earth and he felt free.

Eventually, the warm weight above him rolled to the side, hitting the floor with a grunt. Ian opened his eyes to watch a muscular arm stretch to the tea towel hanging on the stove handle bringing it to the front of his body and making a quick swipe. Then it landed on Ian’s crotch. He cleaned himself up and handed the towel back. It sailed across the kitchen hitting the side of the trash can.

They zipped up but didn’t move yet.

"Holy shit," Ian whispered. “Love at first...toke.”

A low chuckle floated up to the ceiling and completed Ian’s content feeling. "Yeah."

“Are you Mick?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m Ian.” He turned his head to check out the profile. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll take the ounce, whatever price you set.”

That chuckle filled Ian up again. “I bet.”

“Is that shit always so good?”

He didn’t get a response for a minute or two. “Nah, I think there was something extra in that batch.”

“Hm, I want that exact baggie then. And some fucking water. I could drink an entire ocean.”

“Salt water, man.”

“Okay, a lake then.” He giggled, eyes still on the smiling profile beside him. “How ‘bout a glass then?”

Licking what appeared to be dry lips, he gave Ian a look from the side of his eye. “I guess you’ve earned it.”

They got up, a touch of awkward awareness in their movements now despite the mellow glow of the last half hour or so. Ian tugged his t-shirt back over his head and accepted the glass of water, watching the white tank top cover Mick’s chest. Feeling the first tendril of discontent return, he was already craving more of what he now feared he wasn’t going to be able to live without.

He snagged his phone from where he left it next to his beer bottle and followed Mick from the kitchen. “I’m gonna text my brother, if that’s okay.”

Tapping in his password, he looked up for confirmation and found a scruffy looking dude sitting on the sofa exactly where Ian had been sitting earlier. Oblivious to Ian, he stared at the same golf station while eating beans from a can, the fork rhythmically scooping and connecting with his mouth, but his eyes shifted once to coldly assess Ian.

“Uh, Mick?” Ian said.

“Yeah, sure, Officer Asshat is gone,” he responded, pushing the curtains apart so he could watch the road while puffing on his lit cigarette. “Tell ‘im to meet you in the alley two houses down. Swastika painted on the garage door.”

“Mick,” he repeated a little more urgently, making his way toward the living room window.

“Yeah?”

“Who’s that guy?” he asked, tipping his head toward the sofa, but the wild mane of untamed blond hair didn’t turn in Ian’s direction again.

“Guy,” Mick said, glancing around Ian at the sofa with a hint of distaste. “Fuck I hate beans.”

“Yeah, that guy.” Not that Ian wasn’t proud of his sexuality and not that he hadn’t engaged in a few public displays of that sexuality while inebriated in a couple of clubs, but it wasn’t the same as unknowingly getting off while someone was in the room. Because where did he get those beans?

“Guy,” Mick repeated.

“Yes,” Ian said, feeling exasperated and then annoyed that his buzz was wearing off. “Him!”

“Guy.” A slow, sexy, knowing smile spread over Mick’s face, and it widened as realization crept over Ian’s face. “That’s his name. French Canadian.”

“Oh.” He leaned in close so he could lower his voice. “Has he been here the whole time?”

“Dunno,” he shrugged, then sniffed, nose crinkling with a hint of something. Maybe embarrassment, hopefully not regret. “I was kinda busy.”

Ian blushed, from heat and want and memory. “Yeah.” His feet brought him closer as Guy became a distant memory, but a hand stopped him from closing the distance completely.

“I’ll get your weed.”

He watched the hand grip the material of his t-shirt, knuckles red and scabbed from hitting something recently, then the fingers relaxed and dropped away from Ian’s shirt. Mick walked to the coffee table where his baggie was sitting. When he grabbed it off the magazine, those tits reappeared and Ian glanced at Guy wondering if he would notice, and whether he’d care. One dirty sock landed on top of the magazine as he slouched further into the sofa cushion. Apparently, he wasn’t a boob man either.

“Four hundred,” Mick said, waving Ian into the kitchen and toward the back entrance.

“You said five.”

“Ya wanna argue?”

“Nope.” Ian felt his face screw up into a silly grin and wanted to kick himself, but he pulled the bills from his shoe. Glancing at the phone, he added, “Lip says he’ll be, like, two minutes.”

Lip had had a lot of other things to say as well.

“Thanks for the update, man.” The back door opened.

“Okay, well, um, thanks.”

“My pleasure,” Mick agreed, eyes all over Ian’s face and making one slow trip down his body. “See ya.”

As Ian passed on his way to the door, he started to lean in for a kiss but second guessed that decision. He currently had no words to define what had just gone down between them, and no way was he going to ask.

“Right. Bye.”

He spun on his sneaker, taking the steps two at a time. The early evening air felt great on his skin, and the weed soothed his nerves enough to take one look over his shoulder.

Mick was leaning on the porch railing, forearms holding him up, orange glow where his smoke dangled from his fingers. He nudged his chin in Ian’s direction and Ian waved.

“Left at the alley.”

“Okay.”

He made the left and the Focus’s headlights flashed at him as he sprinted to the car.

“What the fuck, Ian?” Lip snapped before his ass hit the seat. “You were in there for over an hour. I was ready to call the fucking cops.”

“Coulda just talked to Officer Asshat parked out front.”

“Who? What the hell happened?” While Lip pelted him with questions, the car slowly accelerated, passing Mick’s place. “Did you get the stuff at least?” 

Hard as Ian squinted, he wasn’t able to see anything beyond the back fence. His imagination supplied the image he was looking for though and he leaned back against the seat, slow smile spreading over his face.

“And what the hell happened to your hair?”


	2. Intoxication

Ian spent the better part of two days at every damn Sunglass Hut in the greater Chicago area covering shifts for every Tom, Dick and Harry who felt the need for a last minute holiday before summer break was over and school resumed. It was mid-afternoon on Tuesday, and he was making the six block trek from the train station to his family home, figuring he'd rather work 24 hours a day than walk through the front door of their Kimbark Avenue house.

Passing by the familiar rows of perfectly manicured hedges, he unhooked the clasp on the black wrought iron gate, noting how it swung smoothly instead of scraping along the cement. His dad wouldn’t allow that kind of shit to happen, but Ian wasn’t sure he preferred it that way anymore. In fact, he had an overpowering urge to adjust the hinges on the gate until it scraped the sidewalk.

Instead, he climbed the half dozen steps to their oversized wooden door and braced for the inevitable as it swung open.

“Ian, love, is that you?”

Cringing at the voice, he battled the old familiar guilt that plagued him for wanting to get away. “Yeah,” he yelled hoping he could escape to his bedroom in the basement. But his mom stepped out of the front living room arms open for a hug. She was wearing a sequined cheerleader outfit, pompoms lifting high as he leaned in to hug her because he knew by the overly excited movements that she wasn't going to let that shit go.

“Liam and I are trying on my old clothes. We spent the morning in the attic,” she continued, waving the sparkly plastic shakers at him. Her eyes were bright, too bright, and again he wanted to get away, but Liam’s little voice sucked him into the living room.

"Hip hip hooray!"

“Hey, bud.”

The six year old had his own set of pompoms and his dark skin twinkled with some kind of make-up. “Gimme an I,” he yelled happily at the sight of his big brother, body moving in a series of jumping jacks.

“I,” Ian yelled back.

“Gimme an A.”

“A.”

“Gimme an N.”

“N.”

His little body stopped bouncing, but the tassely pompoms kept moving. “That spells Ian!”

“Oh! Good to know!”

As the boy spun around in circles watching the tassels catch the sunlight, Ian was grateful to see the curtains on the big picture window were finally open, but it didn't stop him from trying to make his escape. He pulled his arms free from his mother’s grasp. “Got stuff to do.”

“Okay," she sounded disappointed but he stepped back toward the front entrance and the door to the basement. "I’m going to let Liam do my hair, so we can put on a show later, sweetheart.”

“I probably won’t be here. Going out,” he decided, feeling like an asshole but a suffocated and angry asshole.

“We’ll video it for you,” Liam announced. “You can watch it on your phone.”

“Great idea.”

"You should go in the attic with me." The boy stopped spinning so he could throw the tassels in the air and attempt to catch them before they landed on the hardwood floor. “I wanted to play with all your army stuff, but Mommy wouldn’t let me.”

Ian clenched his jaw so hard, he felt his teeth give a little under the pressure, but he didn’t look at the woman beside him, knowing her eyes would be begging for forgiveness and knowing he’d rather see them empty of all emotion than see them pleading with him. And the cycle of self-hate made the circle complete.

“Sure, bud, we’ll do that soon. Gotta get ready now though.” He laid a kiss on the soft, dark curls and let his love for his brother replace his anger and bitterness toward his mother. Remembering that once upon a time he’d loved Monica Gallagher more than anyone else.

Liam stopped moving completely and looked Ian in the eye. “Promise?” he asked, clearly not trusting his big brother to follow through.

“Promise.”

It’s not like Liam was living the dream as the youngest Gallagher and remaining gatekeeper between their mother’s breakdowns. In fact, at that age, Ian had had the buffer of his older sister to protect him, but she wasn’t living here anymore and none of the remaining kids had the wherewithal to act as surrogate mom to the final Gallagher child and Liam knew it. Yet, it didn’t seem to dampen the boy’s spirits. Maybe, he’d end up the only Gallagher to not harbor a chip on their shoulder where their parents were concerned.

“Your father will be home this weekend,” Monica added cheerfully. “I was hoping we could have a family dinner on Sunday. It’s been so...”

Ian didn’t stick around to make a second promise. Pulling the basement door closed behind his retreating back, he took the steps two at a time. Dinner with his siblings was one thing, but enduring _both_ of his parents was another. The fact that Clayton Gallagher was rarely home didn’t break Ian’s heart even if it did take some of his mother’s attention off of him.

As soon as he hit the basement floor, he ditched thoughts of his family as well as his clothes and started the shower, planning to scrub every inch of his body in hopes of scrubbing away the negativity, but more importantly, in preparation for something he hadn’t stopped thinking about for two days. He’d gotten a taste of that something and now everything else seemed pointless, or worse, soul sucking.

By the time he stood in front of his closet staring at assorted jeans and t-shirts, his skin was scrubbed pink and tingling with excitement. He wanted to wear fitted jeans because he knew they flattered him the most, but he didn’t want to make getting in and out of them too hard. Plus it was hot as hell today and he’d end up with sweaty balls.

Shit. Maybe he should go with light weight jogging shorts and a tank top. Easy access and if he moved right, they showed off his best features better than his jeans. He slipped on a slim fit maroon pair with black striping, then dug around the tank tops piled on his shelf. As he yanked out a black one, a green U.S. Marine Corps t-shirt came with it, and he tossed it in the corner of the closet hating the sight of it and how seeing that shit always came with a nose dive in his mood.

But it didn’t stick this time because he had better shit to focus on. As he finger combed his hair and spritzed a little body spray here and there, he silently prayed that Mick would be home when he got there. Without a number, he wasn’t able to alert the guy that he was coming, and no way was he going to ask Lip to ask Jonesy because he didn’t want them knowing what he was up to. Plus he hadn’t heard from his brother in two days. Probably still stoned or passed out on someone’s couch somewhere. School was starting in a week and Lip was on their dad’s radar for fucking up last year, so he was trying to feed his addict soul before then.

Ian’s soul needed feeding too.

The L dropped him a few blocks from Mick’s place and, as he made his way down the street, his steps slowed. Two men were hanging out in the front yard, looking at their phones and ignoring each other. Shit, what did he do now? Nut up, he decided, keep walking and approach the house. It wasn’t like strangers appearing at their place would be out of the ordinary.

He made eye contact with the first guy, about his age, longish, scraggly hair, light blue eyes. Sensing no hostility, Ian nodded and pushed the metal gate along the concrete. While two sets of eyes watched him, he pointed at the front door, but they didn’t stop his progress, so he took the steps slowly wondering what he was doing on Mick’s rickety stoop now that he had actually arrived.

After two strong taps against the wood, the door swung open and the smile he didn’t even know was on his face wavered. A middle aged man, smoke dangling from his lips, stared back at him.

“Yeah?” He asked around the smoke, ash dropping to mingle with the sparse, wiry hair on his bare chest.

“Um,” Ian began unsure where he was going with that because it had never occurred to him that anyone else would answer the door, which was stupid as hell since there were two strange dudes in the front yard. He wasn’t actually here to buy any weed. In fact, he hadn’t even checked his wallet, so who knew if he had enough to buy a single gram.

Remembering the door closing in his face last time he’d hesitated, he blurted out. “Is Mick here?”

The man looked over Ian’s shoulder, probably getting some sort of confirmation from the guards, then stepped away and Ian followed him inside, where he was met with more disappointing surprises. The room was full of men, all talking or moving around. He counted seven ranging from a little younger than him to the oldest guy, the one who answered the door.

He also made eye contact with Guy, who was exiting the kitchen with a jar of mini gherkins this time. Seeing Ian waiting in the front entry, he stopped then leaned a shoulder casually against the wall. As he sucked a mini pickle into his mouth, his eyes cooly grazed over Ian. Last time, Ian had been stoned, strung out on sex and surprised to find someone else in the house. Now he was none of those things, and he met assessing golden eyes with assessing green ones. Guy did not like Ian, and for whatever reason, the feeling was mutual.

“How much?” the older man asked, drawing Ian’s attention back to his greying hair and disinterested expression. “As you can see we’re busy, so let’s get this done.”

Ian didn’t know if anyone in the room actually looked busy, but they did look preoccupied. There were a number of papers spread out on the kitchen table occupying a few guys. A couple more were counting cash at the coffee table, and Ian noted that the titty magazine was gone but the TV was still on golf.

“I’m actually here to see Mick, not to, you know, buy.”

“He expecting you? Never said nothing to me about you.” Ian was on the receiving end of a doubtful look and a face full of second hand cigarette smoke. “Who the fuck are you?”

All eyes in the room turned to him, and he froze. Who the fuck was he? Nobody really. But his entire body screamed at the idea of being tossed out without seeing the person he wanted, _needed_ , to see. He could come back another day, but he knew that it would be a bad idea for him to be wandering the streets today after the massive drop he would feel if he walked out now.

“Old friend. I was in the, uh, neighborhood and thought I’d say hi.”

“Mick don’t have _old friends_ dropping by.” The guy continued to puff and stare, and Ian dropped his eyes to the weathered looking tattoos on the man’s chest. More tits, for fuck’s sake. He couldn’t imagine what would compel anyone to get that permanently inked on their skin. Stuffing the butt of his smoke into an empty Bud Light can, he spoke again. “This ain’t a fucking visiting room. Place of business, kid.”

“Oh, sorry, I thought he lived here.” Ian felt the drop starting and began making plans for how he could find some sort of release that wouldn’t end badly for him. That’s what he’d been learning to do anyway. Didn’t always work though.

“Whatever. He’s out back,” the man decided, dismissing Ian and turning to Guy. “Show him the way.”

Ian wanted to say that he knew the way because he wasn’t interested in the French asshole being around when he saw Mick, but it might be best to just do as he was told.

Pushing away from the wall, Guy started toward the kitchen and Ian nodded at the older man, but his attention as well as everyone else’s attention was long gone. As he entered the kitchen, he glanced down at the dirty floor, feeling a flush attack his skin from cheeks to chest. When he looked back up, Guy was smirking. He tossed the empty pickle jar in the trash and nudged the back door open.

Ian was one smirk away from asking what the fuck his problem was, but sunlight and intense heat seeped through the open door, and he was met with a sight he’d been craving for the last two days.

“You got company, Mick,” Guy announced and Ian added a distaste for slightly French accents to all the other things he disliked about the guy.

“That right?”

As those words washed over Ian, Guy dropped from the face of the earth along with all Ian’s pent up stress. He stepped out to the back porch, eyes roving over the dark hair and pinkened skin, at the careless way he slouched in a lawn chair. He was shirtless, jeans pushed up over his calves, feet floating in a kiddie pool of water.

“Well, if it isn’t Panama Red.” He chuckled, sucking on a smoke and eyeing Ian with what he hoped to god was interest and not just amusement. “You chasing the high already?”

Ian nodded because his throat was dry and he suddenly felt unsure. What _was_ he doing here? Who the fuck did he think he was just showing up for what he knew had been a booty call? Even if he hadn’t let himself think those exact words since it might have actually paralyzed him.

“Thanks, Guy, that’ll be all,” Mick smirked, stuffing the smoke between his lips and flicking his fingers in their direction. The door slammed shut as the Frenchman returned to the house. “You gonna stand on the step all damn day?”

Maybe, Ian thought as his feet remained rooted and his tongue remained tied, but his eyes took on a life of their own.

“Suit yourself.” He tipped his face back up to the sun, eyes closed and feet crossing in the water. Ian followed his curves from nose to toes, traveling over thick lashes and parted lips, along his exposed throat to the almost smooth chest and finally pausing on his crotch, covered in faded jeans. For a second, Ian wondered if he had somehow gotten high on weed and was hallucinating because there was no reasonable explanation for his heady reaction.

A loud shout from inside the house snapped him out of his trance, and he breathed deeply as he made the journey toward the kiddie pool and the other lawn chair, racking his brain for conversation starters. But he was thrown for a loop once again when he came face to face with a stack of titty magazines on the seat of the lawn chair. _Playboy, Penthouse, Hustler_.

“These yours?” he asked, stacking them together and sitting in the chair. Without any place to sit them, he lined them up in his lap, fearing he’d end up with nightmares.

Humor-filled eyes opened, glancing at Ian’s lap. “Sure. I was reading the articles.”

Ian picked up the one on top, avoiding the huge nipples to the best of his ability. “It’s from 1984! I’m sure there’s newer stuff out there.”

“It was a good year for nudie mags, Ian.”

Loving the sound of his name coming from that mouth, he grinned down at the magazines, despite the suspicious shadowing on the model’s body that hinted at her nether regions. “Oh yeah? Which one is your favorite?” Shuffling through the pile, he hummed. “Oh, I bet it’s this one here.” He held the magazine up. “Two chicks kissing. That’s hot.”

“If you say so.”

Opening the magazine to a random page, he looked over the top edge meeting blue eyes that narrowed slightly when they were met with the sight on the cover. “Let’s see,” Ian began, flipping through until he found a spread of text.

Clearing his throat dramatically, he began reading. “He runs a hand down to my breast, feeling the nipple harden in response. I lose all sense of time as he continues to stroke my--”

“Okay! You win, asshole, they aren’t mine.”

But Ian loved the sound of his laughter so much that it overrode his own desire to stop reading. Specifically the pit of his stomach loved the sound.

“I’m wet from--” Before he could continue that sentence, a hand shot out and knocked the magazine into the pool of water. It made a splash before sinking the three inches to the bottom.

“So they really aren’t yours then?” he laughed and tossed the rest of the magazines to the grass beside his chair.

“Nah, my uncle was looking for some trigger extensions in the garage and came across my dad’s old collection. They’re making the rounds.”

“Is your dad gonna be mad about that one?” Ian asked, pointing to the pool.

“Probably gonna rise up from the grave and cuff me a good one.”

“Oh shit, sorry.”

“Yeah, the guy was a saint.”

Ian watched the smirk form and was pretty sure that was all sarcasm.

“So we don’t need a moment of silence?”

“More like a moment of celebration.”

The sun was already starting to singe his skin, but he’d burn to a fucking crisp before he left this backyard. “Been gone a long time?” he asked, wondering if he was crossing a line into territory too personal for whatever they had going on.

“Died in prison when I was 12.”

Deciding to drop the interrogation before he regretted it, he reached down to his sneakers to untie the laces. “Water looks refreshing. Mind if I join you?”

“Be my guest.”

They sat for a bit in silence watching their bare feet wade in the water, inches from each other. Of course, Ian had to control the impulse to turn it into a game of footsies. With the gang of drug dealers in the other room, that was probably a bad idea.

“So why you slummin’ today? Run outta Panama already?” His voice was casual, but it didn’t stop Ian from hoping he cared why Ian was visiting.

“No, well, maybe. My brother disappeared after that night, and I haven’t seen him since. Pretty sure that ounce will be nothing but a memory when he returns.”

“Harsh. Didn’t share any?”

“Just that night, after I left you. We rolled one on the way home,” Ian paused thinking about the drive home. Lip nagging him about what took him so long to make the deal, and Ian zoned out on pornographic memories. “Wasn’t the same though. Maybe cause I was coming down from the first high. Whatever, it was missing something.”

Mick was staring at him, lips pursed.

“Oh, I’m not complaining. Still good.”

“Sure,” he replied, flipping open the cooler lid beside him and pulling out a plastic container. He tossed it onto Ian’s lap. “Help yourself.”

Ian broke the seal on the container to reveal two square brownies. They looked fucking delicious, and if they were what he thought they were then he was in heaven. Picking one up, he sniffed it and took a small bite, savoring the sweetness.

“Better take both of them,” Mick suggested as Ian started to replace the lid. “Eat the first one, then wait half an hour for the next. If you thought that Bud Light was the best beer you ever drank, you’ll shit your pants over this.”

His smirk was back and so was the sexy side eye he had given Ian so many times that day. Ian had barely gotten any sleep since then because it invaded his mind whenever he closed his eyes.

“Well that’s quite the thought,” he laughed.

“You shittin’ your pants?”

“Yup.” And he stuffed half the brownie in his mouth, trying to talk around it. “Fuck, that’s good. Who made them?”

“Me, asshole. I’m more than just a pretty fucking face.”

“I know,” Ian breathed, trying not to smile because he was sure his teeth would be smeared with weed filled chocolate, but damn it was hard. “God, I’m not even high and this is the best brownie ever.”

Ian wasn’t sure if it was the sun tinging Mick’s skin or a blush at the compliment but seeing it warmed every inch of Ian’s skin in the process. “Gonna share your secret?” he asked before stuffing the rest of the treat in his mouth.

Mick stopped cracking open a beer so he could assess Ian. “Maybe.” He handed Ian the beer bottle and grabbed a second.

“Thanks.”

Now they sipped in silence and that softening of the edges began, a nice slow slide out of reality and into the perfect world he had experienced two days ago. It was even more pleasant this time because of how gentle the transition was.

“Instant coffee granules.”

“What? In the brownies?”

“Yeah, enhances the chocolate.” Ian was sure that really was a blush this time, and he nodded in agreement, figuring he would agree to anything the guy said. He ran his tongue along his teeth, eyeing the brownie still in his lap then closed the lid and set it under his chair, not wanting to alter the awareness he was experiencing any more than he already had.

“So was that your uncle who answered the door?” he asked. “Big guy, slicked back grey hair.”

“Yeah.”

“And this is your--” he searched for the right word but all he could hear was Lip, “crew?”

That chuckle again. “Sure.”

Ian sipped from his beer bottle, sinking into his chair and wondering if he would ever be able to leave it because he was so fucking relaxed, like anxiety couldn’t touch him. A long, contented sigh escaped, and blue eyes smiled at him.

“Family.”

Ian looked at him for clarification. “All those guys in there?”

“Yup. Well, except Guy.” Ian nodded, amazed at how easy he was to talk to. “Brothers, cousins, that kinda thing.”

“So like a family business of sorts.”

“Of sorts,” he agreed, taking a long swig of his beer and reminding Ian that he had his own bottle.

“Why aren’t you in there helping with whatever they’re doing?” He tipped the bottle toward the house. “They looked pretty busy.”

Giving Ian a pained look, he grunted. “No way am I muling shit across the border. Not interested in going to prison. Fuck you very much. I’ll stick with dealing.”

“You ever been locked up?”

“Not since juvie, thank fuck.” Then he looked at Ian, smirking like he knew the answer to the question he was about to ask. “You ever been locked up?”

Ian shrugged, grateful as hell for the Panama Red flowing through his system and intercepting his genetics, which would drag him down into self-pity at this turn in conversation.

“Yeah?” Mick asked, eyes running up and down Ian’s torso. “Aren’t ya full of surprises.”

And his foot knocked against Ian’s then slid away creating a tiny wave in the water. Ian watched it in fascination. More like his body screamed in anticipation and distracted him from wherever his mind was headed.

“Whose pool is this anyway?”

“Nephew. Comes with my brother sometimes when the old lady is working a shift at the mall.”

Ian listened with half an ear, watching as his foot snuck it’s way closer, like a missile tracking a target, but he chickened out just before making contact.

“So,” Ian teased, working up his courage to try again, “this what you do with your day off? Bake brownies and soak your feet?”

“Looks like it,” he replied. “ _This_ what you do with your free time?”

Ian downed the rest of his beer, mouth dry from weed and want as he tried to decipher that question by searching the other man’s face. What did he think Ian was doing here? Maybe he could let Ian in on it too.

After several silent moments, when he thought he might combust from the sun’s rays and his desire for this guy, their feet met again. They stayed connected, rubbing slowly as the cool water caressed them. Ian’s heart took off and he stared at them in wonder before shifting his heated gaze to Mick’s face, watching his closed eyes turn up to the sun.

Following the line of his body, Ian memorized every inch until he was watching their swaying feet in the water again. His were several sizes larger, and that surprised him for second. Despite knowing that he was taller, he felt less significant, but not in a bad way. In a way like Mick dominated his surroundings and that made Ian want to rest peacefully in his shadow, while he figured out his life.

Their feet moved a little faster and Ian’s brain mercifully stopped, so his dick could take over. It started to fill at the idea of running his foot over the pale ankle and up his calf. Shit, now he was in trouble, and he chanced a look at the guy's grinning face.

“You getting hard from touching my foot?”

Ian tried not to look at his own crotch, but he seemed to have no control over his body at the moment. Sure enough, the damn shorts he’d decided to wear because they offered a decent lack of coverage were doing the thing he had set out to do. Show off his dick.

“Um,” he began. “Yup.”

Now Ian needed to know. His eyes traveled to the front of the other man’s jeans, but his beer bottle was blocking the view. He shot a look at his face and his grin was so big, Ian could see both rows of white teeth.

“Jerk.”

Sniffing back a laugh, Mick lifted the beer bottle to his lips and sucked the rest of the liquid down. Ian watched that, watched his throat work then dropped his eyes.

Hard.

Jesus, now Ian was starting to pulse with pent up lust. They were sitting in the open, with bright sunlight basically creating a spotlight on them. A crew of men one door away. It would literally only take one minute and he’d be done. Maybe not even a minute if he was able to touch the guy while he finished. Touch any part of him, preferable more intimate than his foot, but fuck that would do apparently.

“Mickey,” an unfamiliar voice cut through Ian’s sex starved thoughts. “Uncle Kenny wants you.”

Ian shifted slightly in the lawn chair, partly to look at the back porch and partly to make it seem natural that he was covering his junk. One of the guys who had been counting money in the living room was watching them, his blond hair poking out in several locations and his right hand shading his eyes.

“What the fuck for?” Mickey replied, grabbing Ian’s attention again.

“Needs you to make a run.”

“Fuck.” But he pulled his feet out of the pool, kicking warm water from them. Ian followed, wondering if his pleasant day had just come to an end. The brownie was really starting to weave its way through his system, so maybe that would ward off the slightly lost feeling that he’d woken up with.

The back door slammed shut again, and Ian watched Mickey yank a boot on over his bare foot. He paused in rolling down his jean cuff to look at Ian. “Well, Panama, better get a move on.”

Ian stuffed his wet feet into his sneakers and stood up, awkwardly wondering how to say good-bye. Did he escape through the back gate like last time or follow Mickey into the house?

“Need a lift somewhere?”

Nodding, Ian felt the easy return. “Thanks.” He stood stupidly beside his lawn chair, just happy to get more time together, even if it was only driving through town.

“Eat your brownie,” Mick commanded, tossing the container at Ian before pushing up from his chair and covering his chest with a black sleeveless t-shirt. They entered the house, Ian trailing behind as the brownie melted in his mouth.

Mick came to a stop in the dining room. “What run?” he asked the older guy who’d answered the door, Uncle Kenny apparently. Ian wanted to step directly behind Mick, so he could disappear because every eye in the room was on him. And not one of them seemed friendly.

“Who the fuck is this guy, Mickey?” Uncle Kenny asked, dropping a printout of a map to the kitchen table and glaring at his nephew.

“No one you gotta worry ‘bout.”

They engaged in a staring contest, and Ian’s desire to tuck into Mick’s shadow got bigger. Now he felt like a dick for putting Mickey in this position. He was about to announce that he was leaving, when Uncle Kenny spoke.

“Pickup at the foundry,” he explained, tossing a set of keys at Mick. “Take Guy.”

“I’ll handle it alone.”

Uncle Kenny turned on Mick, stepping closer. “You little shit, every fucking thing outta your mouth is fucking contradictory.”

Mick shrugged, grabbing a pack of Marlboros off the table. “Not everything.”

Ian knew his eyeballs were almost popping from their sockets at the exchange. Uncle Kenny was twice Mick’s size, twice his age, obviously wore the pants in this family, but Mick seemed completely unfazed as he stuffed a smoke between his lips.

And Kenny must have figured it wasn’t worth the trouble. He rubbed his forehead once then dismissed Mick with a headshake. They started toward the door with one parting comment from the older man. “Don’t fuck up. You know my patience can only be pushed so far then it doesn’t exist anymore.”

Mickey tipped his head back as he exhaled the first pull of his smoke.

“Even for blood, Mickey.”

Nothing more was said, and Ian followed him out the front door toward an older model Ford truck.

“Woah. That was intense,” Ian breathed.

All he got in response was another shrug of indifference. He slid into the passenger side seat, surveying the interior until his eyes landed on the driver.

“Buckle up, man. I don’t take stupid chances.”

Ian obeyed, snapping the belt into place as Mick reached an arm across the cab toward the glove compartment to dig around among the papers and other paraphernalia.

“Fuck’s sake,” he cursed slamming the little door closed. “Pricks take my goddamn sunglasses every fuckin’ time.”

Before Ian could reply, he straightened up then pulled the truck away from the curb. “Where to?”

“Hyde Park?”

“That a question?”

“Uh, no, that’s where I live. Is it on your way?”

“Sure.”

They rode in silence other than quiet music coming from the radio and Ian’s occasional directions. The buildings whizzed past his window lulling him into a daydream-like state of relaxation and contentment. “There’s my mall,” he commented quietly as a giant parking lot came into view.

“Yeah, you own a mall, do ya?”

Ian laughed happily, looking slowly over at the man behind the wheel. “Yes, but I play it on the down low by selling sunglasses all day. Oh!”

Mickey’s eyebrows lifted in interest at Ian’s outburst.

“You should come by Sunglass Hut tomorrow! I can give you a good deal on a new pair since yours keep going missing.” Ian looked down at his lap, feeling silly for getting so excited over the idea even though he really could get him a good deal on a new pair of top of the line Oakley’s.

“Yeah, maybe, I’ll do that.” He sounded like he actually meant it, and Ian let himself hope. Just a little since he’d learned that hoping set you up for disappointment, and he didn’t do so well with disappointment.

“I know just the pair. Look real good on you.” That got him another interested look and Ian settled back in his seat again. His limbs were starting to feel heavy and each time he checked in with his face, a dumb grin was escaping but he just sighed, happy and content.

“Any specific address or should I drop you on the side of the road?”

Ian tried to focus on the question but the heat from the sun warmed him, and the soft music on the radio lulled him. He definitely didn’t want to go home where it would eat away at the pleasant feeling.

“Next right, there’s a park. Just drop me off there.”

“Gonna play on the swings?”

“Maybe.” That didn’t sound half bad. “Maybe I’ll take my little brother there.”

Mick pulled the truck over to the curb under a giant elm tree and put it in park then turned to look at Ian, who experienced each motion as an individual frame, vivid and precise. His heart started to thud and he swallowed dryly. He watched Mickey lay his arm along the back of the seat, fingers twining with Ian’s headrest. Ian followed the arm, over the bicep and bare shoulder to his face.

Knowing it was time to get out of the truck, he remembered why he’d ridden the train to Canaryville and decided to just go for it. Dropping his eyes to the center console, he picked up the phone, wallet and keys sitting on it, then placed them on the dashboard. As he did so, Mickey’s left arm draped over the steering wheel, tattooed fingers tapping the worn looking plastic.

He risked a quick look at Mickey’s face, but he passively watched Ian, head tipped a little to the right. As Ian continued to stare, his tongue rolled over his bottom lip, halting the grin that tried to escape. Ian lifted the console up, tucking it into the seat back. Before sliding his ass along the bench seat, he flicked the volume button on the radio and some Justin Bieber type music pumped out of the speakers.

Ian definitely didn’t look at Mickey then. He just positioned himself next to the guy, knees nudging each other when he turned his body toward Mickey’s. Despite the excitement invading his body, he hesitated wondering if he was out of line, assuming too much from their last encounter. But he certainly was giving the guy enough time to shut him down if he wanted to.

He placed his palm flat against Mickey’s chest, feeling the heat through the worn Metallica t-shirt, and something like a growl formed in the back of his throat when a heartbeat thrummed against his hand.

Lifting his eyes to the slightly parted lips, he stared at them remembering how they felt, soft yet firm. Welcoming. Ian closed his eyes and leaned in, anticipating the shot of desire when their lips met but still rocked by it.

“Ahhnn,” he moaned, pressing harder as Mick’s mouth opened slightly, accepting Ian’s tongue.

He moved closer, sliding his palm to Mickey’s face and caressing his cheek with his thumb. Another moan slipped out when a hand shaped the back of his neck, holding him in place as their heads angled to deepen the kiss. While his heart tried to beat out of his chest and his breath tried to strangle him, the hand on his neck slid down to the middle of his back and pulled him closer, tighter, bringing their chests together, and Ian dropped his hand to the front of Mickey’s jeans, shaping the bulge there.

“Hey,” Mickey whispered into Ian’s mouth as his hand covered Ian's and shifted it to his hip. “We’re in front of a park, Ian.”

They were still so close, lips mostly touching, but they weren’t moving. Ian could feel the pent-up sexual need give way to some other need, something scary and he turned his head slightly, cheek rubbing over those lips then resting lightly on his shoulder. He intended to return to his seat, say his good-byes, but he was frozen. The shoulder was firm and warm, the pleasant scent of man everywhere. He could feel his heart thudding against another thudding heart, and he felt so damn emotional that he was afraid to move.

The hand on his back slid slowly over each of his vertebrae, and Ian held his breath when it paused on his lower back briefly, firmly, then wrapped around his waist in a hug. Ian released a long breath. His eyes closed, his breathing evened out and his fingers dug into Mickey’s hipbone.

Time passed until a car ad came on the radio, jarring Ian from his haze, and he pulled back enough that his cheek rested against Mick’s. He was a little afraid to move any further, to make eye contact and ruin whatever fantasy world he’d created for himself. A fantasy world where he received the best damn hug of his life from a drug dealer.

He pulled away a little more but kept his eyes on Mickey’s chin. “Um, sorry. I was just, um...”

A small smile formed. “Did it look like I was complaining?”

Ian’s eyes shot upwards in time to see eyebrows lift in question, but it didn’t stop Ian’s embarrassment from creeping over him and he slid along the seat, nodding the whole way. “Good, that’s good.” His hand found the door handle, and his foot found the pavement. He lifted a hand in an awkward wave. “Right, okay, bye.”

He slammed the door without waiting for a response, but turned toward the window when he heard it lower. Mick returned his arm to the back of the seat Ian had just evacuated, leaning forward a little. “See you ‘round, Panama.”


End file.
